


The Primrose Path

by havisham



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Boarding School, Caning, Canon Gay Relationship, Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, M/M, Never to Play the Dane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hazell, of all things. Good Lord, Lanyon only keeps an eye on him because he‘s such a misfit and people were giving him hell.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Primrose Path

Hazell wasn’t the sort to stoically endure when he could possibly escape, which was how he found himself cracking open a window as far as it would go (which wasn’t very), his shoes scrabbling uselessly on the ancient stone and getting tangled in the ivy. 

Someone handed Hazell a flask and the spirit burned on its way down. At one point, he pitched forward to the ground, but one of the boys caught his arm. 

“Oof. Like a sack of potatoes, aren’t you?” his rescuer said, and Hazell shivered with pleasure. The rest of the night melted into a blur of smoke and drink. 

But what Hazell remembered most was the silver-flicking of the projection on the cinema-screen, and the reverent hush of the audience. Baby-Face turned to give a man a predatory grin. “Wait,” she said, “... Can’t we talk this over?” 

Hazell mouthed the words to himself, and then bit off a startled moan. The boy beside him withdrew his hand and smirked. 

Of course, nothing beautiful could last, and they were caught trying to sneak back into the dormitory. Hazell didn’t know what would happen to the others, but he was in turmoil over himself. He could be expelled, perhaps, and be forced to start again at a different school. 

It was horrible, horrible! It wasn’t as if he had done anything wrong, unless wanting freedom so very wrong? Freedom, Hazell liked the sound of that. He dreamed it, sometimes, being free from school and lessons, and living somewhere that the sun hadn’t forgotten about entirely... 

Jepson cleared his throat unctuously and Hazell blinked, his sun-lit dreams fading like they’d never been. It turned out that Hazell wasn’t to be expelled after all. Because… well, he thought perhaps because of the staggering amount of school-fees his parents paid every year. That probably had something to do with with it. 

Oh, Jeepers was so very ugly, with his ginger mustache and wet blue eyes. Hazell hated to have to look at him. He was still droning on about loyalty and duty. An obligation to see things through. You have to learn to be a part of a whole. No more nonsense. The man spoke in nothing but pre-digested phrases. 

Then the door opened. A fair-haired boy waited outside, his face a mask of imperturbable calm.

“And there’s the man to set you straight,” Jeepers said, with unsightly relish. “Lanyon, give him six strokes and send him on his way.” 

Of course, Hazell knew Lanyon. Everyone knew Lanyon, the newly-made Head of School, striding around the school like a young god, his presence striking both fear and awe into the hearts of the students (and probably some of the masters too.) That was Lanyon, who now looked at him like he was some insect that had crawled out of the earth. 

Hazell, who had been relatively calm throughout this entire ordeal, now burst into tears. 

*

The whole school was abuzz with the news of Hazell’s exploits. Hysterics. Discontent ruled the day, and the unhappy boys muttered of how he could get away with murder. 

If only!

*

“You really aren’t as stupid as you seem,” Lanyon told Hazell one day in tones of mild surprise.

Hazell, who had somehow lost his own pencil, tapped Lanyon’s silver one against his cheek and fought the notion to put it in his mouth. He knew Lanyon was watching. Oh, to be sure, his marks were almost uniformly dismal -- Greek was Greek to him, his Latin vulgar, and as for maths… The less said of that, the better. 

But his academic career was not wholly without merit; Hazell had once won a prize for Scriptural Knowledge -- and had done so without even resorting to cheating. 

But Hazell was quite used to be considered stupid, anyway -- and he thought it was easier being stupid than clever, and much less demanding.

Lanyon, now, he was clever, but then again, he needed to be. Lanyon’s people couldn’t help him very much, or so Hazell supposed. It wasn’t as if Lanyon confided in him. God, no. They weren’t friends. Lanyon’s interest in Hazell was more earthly-- 

Well, it was good of him to offer to tutor Hazell anyway. One could hardly expect the Head of School to do that for everyone… 

The clock struck five. Hazell dropped the pencil and cast a meaningful glance at Lanyon. But Lanyon’s attention was off him again, out the window. Hazell looked over his shoulder -- around his shoulder -- and saw that idiot Odell running around, his cheeks flushed in the autumn cold. 

Ah. So that was the size of it. Hazell gave Lanyon a sly look, which the other boy caught. 

“Back to work,” Lanyon said, his voice colder than before, and all of Hazell’s hopes for a pleasant evening was dashed. 

*

Hazell should, by rights, be Hamlet. No one else could act as well as he could, no one tried as hard as he did. They were like Odell, more impressed with his prop sword than his speeches. There was Odell now, mechanically rattling off his part while Hazell listened, hardly able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Eventually, however, he stopped speaking and looked at Hazell expectantly. 

“But, good brother,” Hazell said sweetly, “do not, as some ungracious pastors do, show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, whiles like a puff’d and reckless libertine, he himself the primrose path of dalliance treads...” 

Lanyon had come in early for the fencing lessons. Both Hazell and Odell turned their attention to him until Lanyon told them, in a clipped voice, to continue.

Later, Hazell was pressed against a old velvet curtain; he could feel the brick wall through the cloth. His wig and the crown of paper flowers were on the floor. Hazell hooked a leg around Lanyon, who hitched up Hazell's costume. He knew what was doing; this was more than the fumbles in the dark Hazell had thus far experienced. It was no doubt that lack of experience that made him come so quickly, rubbing against Lanyon, savoring the opportunity to run a hand through the Head of School's fine, fair hair. Hazell shivered will pleasure and barely suppressed triumph.

He asked, 'Should I call you Ralph now that you've touched my cock?' 

And Lanyon kissed him, probably to shut him up.

*  
So, why shouldn't Lanyon help him out a little? 

It wasn't as if Hazell had done anything terrible -- he never did anything too terrible, whatever they said -- and that brute Exley had snatched his rosary away. He and his friends had played keep-away with it, ripped the string, and all the red-rose beads had scattered across the floor. 

And it was Hazell who was to be punished for -- defending his faith? Or something like that, at any rate. He was hauled to the Head’s room and Lanyon listed out his charges in a bored, disappointed way while Treviss tsk-tsked. 

When Lanyon said there would be no more of this, Hazell kissed the small, red crucifix that he had rescued from the floor. 

“Judge ye not, lest ye be judged,” he said significantly. 

Lanyon rolled his eyes and said, “Get off the floor, Hazell, you look a sight.” 

* 

Hazell made his way to the Head of School's room with slow but confident steps. The way was familiar by now; he knew just where to avoid a squeaky floorboard. Lanyon's door was the same as every, and when Hazell knocked. 

"Come in," Lanyon said in his crisp, official sounding voice, the one that made the first years’ knees knock together and even alarmed the older boys. Hazell was almost whistling when he came in, one hand in his pocket. His current offense was not particularly bad -- he had been found malingering in the sicker and as such, had missed the morning’s lessons. 

“Have you missed me, darling? Where’s my kiss?” Hazell said boldly. He closed the door firmly behind him, the lock sliding into place. 

Lanyon gave him an unamused look, but Hazell knew better that to be discouraged. He thought that Lanyon secretly liked this part more than any other, having to play up his outraged virtue. If Hazell knew anything, it was that Lanyon had no virtue whatsoever. That was what Hazell liked most about him. 

Somewhat tentatively, Hazell said, “We haven’t had any lessons for some time now.” He licked his lips, which felt suddenly quite dry. He inched closer to Lanyon, who was quite still. “Don’t you think there’s more you can teach me?” 

And, because he was feeling especially daring, “Ralph? Couldn’t you just -- well, kiss me? I know I’m not Odell, but...” 

Lanyon stepped away from him. “Take off your jacket, Hazell.” 

Hazell complied with a heavy sigh. Then he began to unbutton his trousers, but Lanyon held up a remonstrating finger. 

“Only your jacket.” 

There was a cleared space in between Lanyon's desk and his bed. The desk was nearly arranged, everything in its proper place and a place for everything. Lanyon's bed was much the same way, except for the times Hazell had been in it. 

Hazell went to the middle of the room and bent down, grabbing his ankles. He heard Lanyon taking out the cane. It was a wicked looking thing, thin and dark, older than both of them combined. The leather handle was worn smooth with use. The cane had history on it, none of it very good. 

Lanyon told Hazell, addressing his back, that he would receive six strokes and then he could go. The next time he faced punishment, he could report to Treviss. 

Hazell gasped aloud when the first stroke fell. But he did not feel angry at this new betrayal -- it wasn’t as if he thought Lanyon would be interested in him forever. He knew that he was, in fact, a very distant second choice. 

It was only when the second blow had fallen that Hazell realized there was a pool of heat gathering in his stomach. He had forgotten to smuggle an exercise-book under his trousers, to soften the blow. 

The third stroke was harder than the last, and Hazell’s grip around his ankles tightened. He would not cry out, he would not. There was pain now, along with a sort of numbness that spread across his bum. 

The fourth was more of a blow than anything else, and Hazell’s pain had bloomed into something more, something deeper and perversely wonderful. It was like the feeling one got after peeling away scab, pain mixed with pleasure and an odd kind of satisfaction. He could hear Lanyon breathing heavily, though he should not have been winded. 

The fifth blow, and the sixth came in rapid succession. As soon as it was over, Hazell sank downward, his face to the floor. He did not try to get up. He heard Lanyon put the cane on the floor and bent down. To inspect the damage, no doubt. 

Now was his chance. 

Hazell turned over quickly and wrapped his hands around Lanyon’s waist and brought him down to the floor. Lanyon was taller than him, and stronger. His hands were rougher than a gentleman’s ought to be; there were rumors that he worked, during his summer holidays. 

Hazell was aroused, of course, and had been since Lanyon had caned him. He fumbled with the buttons of his trousers so desperately that something tore. Finally he gasped out, “Lanyon, please. I’d let you fuck me like this, please.” 

Above him, Lanyon looked … He looked terrified, as if Hazell had threatened to kill him. His hands fell from Hazell’s neck, and he pushed himself up -- but not quite away. Hazell’s own hands slid in between their two bodies, and he smiled at what he felt there. He felt the power shifting from Lanyon to himself, and he was very, very pleased. 

Lanyon caught the expression on his face, and finally shoved him away. He got up and turned away, taking two steps away. 

Hazell sat up and pushed his hair back from his face. He gave a short, shaky laugh and said, “My, my what a reaction. I wonder -- did your father used to beat you, Lanyon? Or was it your mother?” 

Lanyon’s back stiffened. For a moment, Hazell was sure Lanyon would hit him again. But instead the Head of School turned and looked down at him, like an insect once more. 

“Get out,” he said flatly. 

Hazell got up, his whole body aching. His clothes were in a terrible state -- except for his jacket, safely draped on the back of Lanyon’s chair. He put it on and said, quietly, “You’re a terrible hypocrite, Lanyon.” 

Then, spurred by an heretofore unknown sense of self-preservation, Hazell ran out of the room. 

* 

Making a false confession was a mortal sin, but an hour, then two in Jeeper’s sweltering office was more than enough time for Hazell to reconsider his religious leanings. Jeepers, with his huge, wet looking-eyes, and his heavy hands on Hazell’s shoulders. How Hazell hated him! How detestable was his eagerness to hear every - single - detail of what Lanyon had done. 

“It’s serious, very serious. It could ruin the school,” Jeepers said, and then gave a wet-sounding cough. 

Hazell squirmed in his seat and asked, “Will he be caned, sir?” 

A beautiful scene presented itself to him -- Lanyon being told that he was to be caned, a steely expression creeping over his face. He took off his clothes very, very slowly. His skin was white and unmarked, except where the last summer’s sun had coloured it. Hazell saw himself hold the the cane, and saw Lanyon looking back at him, unafraid. He wondered if Lanyon would make any sound during the caning itself, whether of pain or pleasure. Hazell thought not. 

If only he could get to see it done! The satisfaction would feel better than pleasure. 

Jeepers snorted loudly. “Don’t be stupid, boy. He’ll be expelled, of course.” 

Oh. 

*

The day Lanyon left, Odell came charging at him in the dinner-hall with murder in his eyes. But Hazell, at least, had gotten good at dodging the blows he didn’t particularly want. Carter came running up and hauled Odell back, while Hazell merely looked on. He had expected to feel triumphant now, but really he felt nothing in particular. It certainly wasn’t Hazell’s fault if Odell had missed something that was in front of his nose the entire time. 

Stupid Odell, he couldn’t even fight properly. And stupid Lanyon, didn’t he see that he at least he was free -- of this place, at least? 

Hazell sat down again and poked at his dinner. Of course, he sat alone, but he didn’t mind that today. How he longed to be free! Already, both Lanyon and Odell were fading quickly from his mind. Instead, they were replaced by glorious visions of the future. 

He had already had plans for what he would do after he left school. He had some money coming to him, though not until he was twenty-one. That would take too long, for what he wanted. The first moment he could, he would buy a first-class ticket on a steamer to New York, and then head west until the sun found him again. To Hollywood! 

And there he would live happily ever after. 

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Naraht, for betaing and suggestions.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Steep and thorny (a remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4218582) by [Lilliburlero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero)




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